Chapter Five Sunny
My hand is still trapped in Dylan’s when the applause finally fades.
I don’t think I’ve breathed properly since the spotlight hit us—since the words newly engaged echoed through that ballroom like a prophecy I never agreed to.
Fake. It’s fake. It has to be fake.
But when Dylan looks down at me—jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes reading every panic-pulse under my skin—I feel anything but fake.
He leans closer. “Smile,” he murmurs, teeth barely moving.
I force my lips upward. It feels wrong on my face.
He guides me to the side of the stage where waiters are already lining up with chilled champagne. He takes two flutes without asking and hands me one. I don’t trust my fingers, so I hold it tight—like a rope in a storm.
“Did you know?” I whisper as quietly as possible. “That they’d announce that?”
“No.” His voice is flat. Controlled. A man suppressing a thousand reactions behind a single syllable. “Someone fed them the rumor.”
“Who?” I choke. “Who would do that?”
His gaze turns predatory. “Someone who wants leverage.”
I don’t know what that means—only that my stomach drops.
Before I can speak again, a board member in diamonds and a smile that could curdle milk approaches.
“Congratulations, Dylan,” she trills. “And my dear—Sunny, yes? You must be thrilled.”
My cheeks go numb. “Thrilled. Yes. Very… thrilled.”
Lying this much should come with oxygen masks.
Dylan slides a hand to the small of my back. I can’t decide if it grounds me or brands me.
“Thank you,” he says smoothly. “We’ll make a formal announcement soon.”
Formal announcement. My knees buckle. I pretend it’s because of the heels.
We’re finally able to escape the crowd long enough to breathe near the bar. Dylan downs half his champagne like he wishes it were whiskey.
“We need to talk,” he says.
Oh no.
He guides me toward a quieter hallway, away from chandeliers and glittering people. The instant the doors close behind us, silence pounces.
He turns to face me fully.
“Sunny,” he says, voice low. “We have a problem.”
My laugh is a cracked glass sound. “Just one?”
He exhales. Rubs a hand across the back of his neck. I’ve only seen him look… frazzled… once before. Tonight makes twice.
“I can’t undo what happened out there. If I deny it tomorrow, it becomes a scandal. Headlines. Think pieces. Your ex watching every second.”
“And if we don’t deny it?” I whisper.
His eyes find mine—dark, intense, unblinking.
“Then we let them believe it’s real.”
My pulse stutters.
“No,” I say immediately, shaking my head. “No, Dylan, that’s—”
“It protects you,” he cuts in. “Your job. Your safety. It takes the spotlight and uses it. As a shield.”
“But marriage?” I sputter. “Fake-marriage? That’s not a shield. That’s— insanity.”
He steps closer. I feel my back graze the wall.
“It’s strategy,” he murmurs. “You stay with me. We control what the world sees. You don’t disappear alone and vulnerable. No one gets to corner you again. Not Malone. Not the press. Not anyone.”
“But my job,” I whisper. “My board. My reputation. If they think I’m—”
“They already do.” His tone sharpens, then softens. “And I’m not letting them weaponize you.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until his thumb brushes a tear from my cheek.
“How?” I breathe. “How do you say this like it’s just… business?”
His jaw flexes. “Because I have to. Because feeling anything about this only complicates things.”
Feeling. The forbidden word.
He takes a breath—deep, steady.
“We fake it,” he decides. “Thirty days. A public engagement. A temporary marriage license if necessary. Then a clean break once the storm passes.”
Thirty days.
A month of pretending to belong to him. To sleep under his roof. To answer to his world.
Part of me—a small traitorous part—ignites.
“I don’t want to owe you,” I whisper.
“You won’t,” he says. “This isn’t charity. It’s mutually beneficial damage control.”
“And what do you get?” I ask.
His eyes darken. “Control.”
Of the story. Of the press. Of my safety.
Of me.
He looks away then—just for a moment—and I see something in his expression I’ve never seen before.
Fear.
I inhale slowly.
“Thirty days,” I repeat. “And then it ends.”
He nods. “Then it ends.”
He extends his hand.
“Deal?”
His palm is open. Waiting. Like I’m a contract he’s daring me to sign.
My fingers hover—shaking. I shouldn’t do this. I should run. I should protect what pieces of myself are left.
Instead—I slide my hand into his.
Static snaps up my arm.
His voice is a vow and a warning all at once.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
My breath breaks.
Before I can process any of it—his phone buzzes.
He looks at the screen. Goes still.
“Who is it?” I whisper.
He turns the phone so I can see.
Ethan Emerson – Incoming Call
My brother.
The one person who can destroy this before it starts.
Dylan answers—slow, deliberate.
“Hey, man,” Ethan says over speaker, unaware my entire world is tilting. His voice is cautious. Suspicious.
“Is Sunny with you?”
My heart stops.